


The Entwined Way

by ZarAlexander



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Medical Conditions, Medical Jargon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZarAlexander/pseuds/ZarAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU] How wise can it be to take up something found in the garbage and bring it home? [PruIta, Yaoi, AU, Angst, H/C]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Entwined Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taimi/gifts).



> English is not my native tongue.  
> Please, point out any mistakes.  
> Also, I'm not a doctor, and I used Google to document myself.

The Entwined Way

Die Nacht öffnet ihren Schoß  
(Night opens her lap)   
Das Kind heißt Einsamkeit  
(The child's name is Loneliness)  
 Es ist kalt und regungslos  
(It's cold and motionless)  
 Ich weine leise in die Zeit  
(I softly cry into Time)  
 Ich weiß nicht wie du heißt  
(I don't know your name)   
Doch ich weiß dass es dich gibt  
(But I know that you exist)  
 Ich weiß dass irgendwann  
(I know that some time)   
Irgendwer mich liebt  
(Someone will Love me)

(Rammstein – Stirb nicht vor mir)

 

PROLOGUE

January, midnight.

As a sleet storm fiercely ravaged the slums of Eastern Chicago, a slim figure stood in a dark, solitary alley. Huddled in his winter coat and woolen scarf, he was holding an umbrella, staring down at something half-hidden in between a rubbish bin and a pile of trash. 

“You shouldn't stay here.” the figure said, without any real reason “You might freeze to death, you know?”

Crimson eyes stared up at him, blazing and spiteful like the gates of Hell.

“So what? Even if I died right here, right now, it wouldn't be your fucking business anyway.”

The umbrella was closed, revealing a mass of disordered hazel hair.

“You want to die?”

“What if I wanted to die? Would you care?”

“No. Because death is for cowards.”

In the dead of the night echoed the sound of a slap.

******

 

Feliciano Vargas, 27, intern at Chicago General Hospital, stepped out of the shower with a weary sigh. He blindly reached for a towel to dry his hair and face, grimacing as he could notice his cheek still somewhat burned. 

He cast a glance in the mirror, seeing the distinctive mark of fingers glowing even harsher, now that his skin was moist and reddened by the vapor. 

Shit.  
That would be hard to explain at work.

When he finally reached back to his living room, wearing some comfortable, hopefully still half-clean clothes, he found himself under the scrutiny of the same crimson eyes as before.

“Oh, fuck! Look, dude, I really didn't mean to hit you that hard.” a weirdly screeching voice said immediately, coupled with a fake smile “I'm sorry. Also, thanks for the soup, but now I'd better be going.”

The brunette let out a grunt.

“Go where? Out in the blizzard? Stay here. I'll give you something clean to change into.”

A part of his mind immediately suggested it was a terrible, horrible idea, but, somehow, he couldn't restrain himself.

“If you still wanna die, you can do it tomorrow as well, in the sunshine, can't you? Don't know, jump in front of the metro, throw yourself down a bridge, get a gun and shoot your brains out. But death from hypothermia sucks – that shit is ugly and painful.”

The false grin faded in the blink of an eye.

“The fuck do you know?” was the venomous reply that he heard.

Weirdly, such a tone seemed to put him much more at ease.

He crossed arms on his chest, raising a brow.

“The fuck do I know?” he repeated, slowly “Well, I know a lot, for your information. I'm a doctor, and I've seen people dying in all possible ways. And, among those thousand ways, you've chosen the dumbest.”

Bloody irises shrunk into a thin line.

“If you hate me that much, why the fuck did you let me in, huh?”

Hate?

Feliciano Vargas tilted his head to the side, pensively.

“I don't hate you. I don't even know you, how could I hate you?”

The other man didn't relent.

“What about the food, then, huh?”

Nor did the brunette.

“Your stomach was grumbling. And then, you were the one who started following me to apologize for slapping me right on my face. Not to mention that starving yourself to death is the second most stupid way to leave this world.”

A cacophonous, almost metallic laughter resounded.

“Oh, really? Then, if you're really a doctor, and you really know that much, why the fuck don't you give me something to 'end it' more beautifully, then, huh?”

Feliciano didn't even blink.

“Sure. There are three packs of Ambien in the bathroom's cabinet, some Xanax, and probably Valium, too. Wash them down with a bottle of vodka, and enjoy.”

A stupefied, almost shocked silence followed his words. 

 

******

As he sat under the white light of his kitchen, Feliciano Vargas could finally have a good look at whatever it was that he had “rescued”. 

Red eyes, white hair, pale skin.

Oculocutaneous albinism, most probably – quite a rarity.

Could he see well enough, even without spectacles? 

None of his business, indeed.

Anyway, that guy looked as if he hadn't eaten in a week or so, at least judging from the way his skin was starting to adhere to his bones, around his wrists.

Dumbass.

There, if there was a kind of people he couldn't stand, they were the jerks who pulled out those idiotic stunts. What the Hell did they think they'd get, by refusing food? 

Nothing, that's what they got – nothing, apart from becoming a nuisance to the ER personnel who was forced to rummage everywhere for a vein that would hold long enough to fluid-resuscitate them. 

“So, are you really a doctor?” the albino asked, probably tired of the long silence.

The brunette took a sip of his coffee.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. What kind of doctor are you?”

Oh, shit.  
Not another one of those people.

“I work in the ER.” he replied out of pure courtesy.

A small nod, then some more silence.

Good.  
Better that way.

As long as it lasted, at least.

“Did you ever see anyone dying?”

For a second, Feliciano stopped drinking. He just stared at his cup, immobile.

“Of course.”

“Did you ever kill someone?”

He squeezed the small container, tight, until his fingers whitened.

“Not on purpose.”

“Did you-”

Brown eyes looked up suddenly.

“Look, are you perhaps one of those stupid emos who are sick enough to worship death, or something?”

Somehow, his comment elicited a long, amused giggle.

“No. But we'll all die, sooner or later, right? I just wanna know in advance how it feels.”

Feliciano Vargas stood up.

A horrible sense of discomfort made his skin itch.

“Cold.” he said “Death feels unnaturally cold.”

 

******

 

Somehow, that strange albino – Gilbert Weilschmidt seemed to be his name – had ended up sleeping on his couch.

One night, two nights, three.

A week.

He really didn't know why, but the brunette felt weirdly irritated and appalled by its presence, as if a part of him just wanted to let that pathetic jerk die in a snowstorm, while another equally pushing portion of his soul was inexplicably enthralled by his gestures, his demeanor, his speech.

At least, he seemed to be somewhat grateful for the hospitality.

He regularly did the dishes, cooked, cleaned around the house – and, as much as he would have liked to be efficient enough to be able to say he could very well do that all on his own, Feliciano Vargas knew all too well that, with his never ending shifts, it was a miracle if he had clean clothes for three days in a row. 

Anyway, maybe the strange albino wasn't even as malnourished as he had initially thought – despite seeing him eat every day, in fact, he hadn't taken on a single pound, most probably, because, day after day, the clothes he had lent him still outlined his body in the same way, that is, making him look like the central pole holding a very loose circus' tent. 

Bizarre, indeed.  
He really had the complexion of someone who could gain a lot of muscular mass, and his bones were sturdy.

Oh, well – even doctors can be wrong at times, can't they?

And yes, of course his brain regularly went over and over again around all those stupid ideas, just to avoid asking the most important question: why the Hell was he playing host with someone he had found tucked between a garbage bin and a pile of trash? 

Why was he feeding him, talking to him, living with him?

He liked to tell himself that he had acted the same exact way he would have if he had found a kitty, or a puppy dog, but he knew all too well the case was completely different.

He just didn't want to think about it – yet. 

 

******

 

Had there been a time when “intercourse” meant something different than a quickie in the supplies closet, against the shelf with the Foleys?

Probably.  
But, anyway, it was so far back in the past that he had honestly forgotten it could be actually possible to have sex on a proper bed, with clean sheets.

Feliciano Vargas was gay.

Pretty much everybody knew about it, almost all were okay with it, and a few liked to call him “dumb faggot”.

Fair enough, for what he cared.

There were even people strongly believing that some strong traumas in the past had to be the roots of his devious sexuality, but that boisterous Spanish therapist his brother had forced him to see after the fact had denied such a theory from the very beginning.

'You are who you are.' he had said 'And you're not what happened.'

Damn shrinkish language that made no sense whatsoever.

But, of course, he had taken such a thing as axiomatic.

Because he had faith in his doctor?

Not at all.

But the fact was just another of those things he really didn't want to think about.

Anyway, since he had started working in a hospital, five or six years before, his sexual life had reached quite a disgusting level of squalor, being shrunk to feeling-less heated sessions in between an open abdominal trauma, and a kid with asthma in Room 3.

That's why, when his weird rescue had bedded him after a few too many beers, he had been completely shocked.

And no, not because he was letting a complete stranger fuck him after some ten days of cohabiting – he had done much worse than that, actually – but because, indeed, having sex in his own bed, at night, with lights off like every common civilian was much more appeasing and refreshing than anything in had done in the last half-decade.

Not to mention that Gilbert was quite a good lover – even if, probably, his judgment was influenced by the fact that half of his latest encounters had seen him unceremoniously bent over the examination couch of an empty room, pants yanked down to his knees, as a dick was stuck in with just some spit to lube it. 

But, really, he honestly didn't care that much.

Love was love, and sex was sex.  
The first was pure utopia, as real as Santa Claus, and the latter was a sickening practice he yielded to just to quench his hormones. 

So, he didn't expect it to be good, or even decent – or even painless for the matter.

But there, his mind was going astray one more time, huh?

And, once again, it was right because it was better to muse about how little he could care about the quality of his past fucks than focusing something else.

Like the fact that, for the first time in his life, instead of just ejaculating, Feliciano Vargas had experienced an orgasm.

 

******

 

Letting the albino fuck him soon became a routine.

He liked to think that it was because it was much more convenient than risking a disciplinary action for being caught while doing that shit on his workplace, but he knew he was lying to himself.

There.  
Another topic he didn't want to touch.

Ah, and then people wondered why he always looked so silly and carefree, in front of everyone else – by discarding one topic at a time, it wasn't like he had that much to talk about anyway.

The weeks passed.

One, two, three, four.

They became months, and recalcitrance to deal with certain things didn't diminish at all.

So, Gilbert was still sleeping on his couch – or, rather, in his bed, more often than not – he was still feeding him, and no, he still didn't know why.

Maybe it was for his spotless cleaning.  
Maybe for the ready-to-eat meals when he came back from a 18-hour-long shift.

Shit.  
He had become so good at lying to himself, hadn't he?

In any case, whatever the reason, it looked like Feliciano Vargas had always a good excuse not to set free that weird, possibly suicidal albino.

So much that, at some point, Gilbert himself had noticed.

“Why the fuck are you still keeping me here?” he asked one day, out of the blue, as they were eating some Chinese take-away.

“You'd go kill yourself the moment you stepped out of here.” was the only thing the brunette could come up with.

“And, would you care?”

Yes.

“No. But as I already told you once, death is for cowards.”

The albino snorted, and a sad smile curved his lips.

“Is it? I don't think so, ya know. Death is inevitable, isn't it? So, are we all cowards?”

Good.  
Philosophical speech was still better than having to try and explain why he was still bothering with him.

“No, we're not. It's just wanting to forcefully bail out of it that makes you a coward. There are no good reasons to just go and kill yourself.”

Another mocking grin.

“No good reasons? Not even one?”

Putting down his chopsticks, Feliciano Vargas sighed.

“No. Unless you're already dying a painful death, and you're bound to end up pushing daisies pretty soon anyway.” he sprawled onto the couch, throwing his head back enough to take a glimpse of the ceiling “But even then, you'd still be pretty much a wimp. You'd better do something to be remembered, rather than choosing the easy way out, don't you think?”

A little, stiff chuckle was all he received as an answer.

 

******

 

Apparently, three months was the amount of time his brain needed to stop questioning his decision to pick up Gilbert.

After all, so far it had been a win-win situation, right?  
 He had a clean house, some decent meals, and even sex on demand, while that strange guy was still alive – skinny as Hell, but alive.

Not to mention that, with their ridiculously low wage and stellar student loans to pay off, all his colleagues were poor enough to already have a roommate – so, he could always say he had just found his own in a pretty unusual way.

If he had to be completely honest, Feliciano Vargas had become quite fond of the routine, enough to nurture some expectations, like having his uniforms cleaned and ironed day by day, something edible at hand, and – ugh – someone to wait for him.

That's why, when he came home at 4 AM, one morning, to notice that all the lights were switched off and there was nothing ready in the fridge, microwave, or on the table, his first reaction was sheer irritation.

That is, until he noticed that there were signs of vomit in the kitchen sink – then, irritation became proper rage. 

Dumbass!

Had he attempted to kill himself? At his place?

Granted, he had never made it a mystery that he had enough shit in his cabinet to put out an elephant, but had Gilbert really...?

Dumbass, and moron!

Pissed beyond salvation, the brunette switched on all the lights.

“Gilbert!” he yelled in his most stern tone “What the Hell did you do? Gilbert!”

As no one replied, just the slightest hue of fear mingled with his blind anger.

Then, he found him. 

The albino was on the bathroom's floor, jerking uncontrollably. 

Fantastic!  
A tonic-clonic seizure!

What the fuck had he ingested?

Oh, shit!  
Not after a 12-hour-long shift, he had had enough for the day of suicidal folks, accidents, and whatnot.

He was so gonna pay for being so stupid.

Fortunately, soon enough his medical self kicked in, silencing the rest of his brain.

He grabbed some injectable Valium – thanks God for leftovers from his own previous, unsuccessful treatments, indeed, 'cause there was no way he could give him pills – and loaded the albino with enough medication to stop the damn seizure, as another portion of his consciousness scanned the room for empty bottles of drugs.

Nothing.  
Not even some Tylenol.

Even in his cabinet, everything was right where he had left it.

What the...?  
Did he have epilepsy? And he didn't even wear a Med-Alert bracelet?

Just how moronic could he possibly...! 

Suddenly, Gilbert's voice halted his thoughts.

“... what the fuck...?” he murmured, confused, but quite healthy-looking, at least to be someone who had just had a bout of grand mal “Oh, fuck...!”

As quickly as it had taken over, Doctor Vargas' hegemony subsided, leaving behind only a very angry Feliciano.

“Oh, good! Other than being dumb and suicidal, you even have epilepsy?” 

“I don't...!”

“Where the Hell is your med alert bracelet, huh?” 

“I-”

“Ah, never mind! You need to go to ER, right now. Have you had other seizures, today?” 

“No, and-”

“Did you throw up, too? Do you have an headache, nausea? Blurred vision?”

“Not not, but listen, I-”

“You're the dumbest being I know! You could have died right here, if I hadn't come home, and if I hadn't had some injectable Valium left! And this is why I hate people like you! You always act irresponsibly, messing up with someone else's life! Dumbass! Jerk! You-”

Swiftly, two arms encircled his waist, pulling him close into a tight hug.

“Stop it.” a voice echoed, hushed “Stop crying for me. Seriously. It's not worth the effort.”

Feliciano Vargas' heart skipped a beat, as his nerves registered the sensation of wet tears running down his cheeks.

 

******

That morning, the shame had been so prominent he had decided not to drag the dumbass to the hospital, making him promise he wouldn't bring up what happened ever again.

He still did steal some Diastat from the Chicago General's supplies, but it was for own peace of mind as a doctor – he couldn't allow someone to die in his house, from a known, mostly treatable condition. 

He had a reputation to hold up to, somehow.

But, as much as he didn't want to think about the damn tonic-clonic episode (mostly to avoid the consequent and inescapable memory of him not even noticing he had started crying like a little girl), this time he was out of luck.

Gilbert Weilschmidt had started to appear sicker and sicker.

Frequent headaches, bouts of nausea and vomit, and the constant feeling that he really wasn't quite like himself anymore – at least, for what Feliciano could know about him, of course.

But he seemed forgetful, absent, imprecise, grumpy.

He had no energy left for sex.

There.  
He was forced to act like the mature one again, and bring the idiot to get checked – some blood-tests, and a full physical were the first things that came into Doctor Vargas' mind, but a talk with a neuro didn't seem that bad either.

Maybe he didn't know he had epilepsy? Maybe he had had some milder seizures in his sleep?

Yeah.  
It was a huge hassle, but he had to get that moron checked – all for his famous peace of mind, of course.

Being a physician himself, it had been a matter of minutes to convince one of his colleagues to just give an “informal look” at the albino – after all, he had found him in the street, he probably had no insurance.

Too bad that convincing said albino to just go to his visit turned out to be much harder.

“No, no, no! No visits, I'm fine. My limbs just jerked a little, and you're making a huge deal out of it. And then, we're not even related, I just leech here. So, no. Thank you, but no.”

He had a point there.  
Not that Feliciano was ready to admit it, but he did have point, yeah.

“Oh, 'your limbs just jerked a little'? And the nausea? Headaches? Weakness? Don't be a wimp, Gilbert. You were ready to die in a damn blizzard, and you're scared to go to the hospital for a blood-test? That's pretty pathetic, you know?”

Bloody eyes narrowed, almost menacingly.

“I'm fine, I said. Mind your own business. If it disturbs you to see me throwing up, I'll go somewhere else. It's not me who wanted to stay here anyway.”

Somehow, those words touched the brunette more than they should have.

“Ah, right? And where did you want to be instead? In cemetery?”

The other man shrugged, and Feliciano's irritation skyrocketed.

“So what? My life, my choice.”

So much that he couldn't restrain himself.

“Dumbass. You're one Hell of a dumbass. Look, this is way too shitty for me to be dealing with it. My colleague is waiting for you, tomorrow at 7 AM. And you're gonna go there, whether you like it or not. Understood?”

Those words, instead, seemed to affect Gilbert – and quite a lot.

“Fuck you. I'm outta here now, then. Give me the clothes I had when you decided to play the good Samaritan, because I don't want anything from you, not even a fuckin' tee, okay?”

Rage.  
One more time, pure, bleak rage flooded the usually careless brunette's body, making him tremble.

“Those rags, you mean? They're long gone. Sorry, but it seems that, at the very least, you will need to accept a tee and some pants. Unless you want to go out naked, of course.”

The same spite that had flashed on his face on their first, unfaithful encounter appeared again on the albino's face, but this time, it wasn't fleeting.

Instead, it lingered, soon becoming a grimace of pure hatred.

“Fuck you. You... Just who the fuck do you think you are? You treat me like your damn pet, just to please your own, distorted ego, don't you? What I am to you? A friend? A maid? A dick ready to screw you whenever you're stressed? Not that I care, but I am pretty tired of you acting like a fuckin', patronizing saint!”

And then, anger became hurt.

“I never forced you to stay here. You're as guilty as I am – with the only difference that you should be grateful. Hadn't it been for me, you would have died three damn months ago!”  
 Met by more and more hatred.

“There! Always with that fuckin' story! 'You would have died', 'You would have died'! And then, you say you don't care! You even cried for me!” 

No.  
Not that button, no!

Stupid bastard!

“So, you do care, Mr Doctor! And that's why I haven't left yet. Because you look needy, you know, Mr Perfect? I just had enough common sense not to spit it right in your face – up until now!”

N-Needy?

Suddenly, years and years of high, impenetrable walls, of carefully build defenses, avoided contacts and fake social skills were shattered, pitilessly. 

“I don't need you.” he hissed, and every letter was a sip of poison “You need me.”

A hysterical, insane laughter followed his statement.

“Me? Needing the likes of you? You're a thousand miles away from the truth, Mr. Doctor. You act like you're a fuckin' know-it-all, but know what? You know nothing. You like like one of those frustrated people who had a perfect life, perfect family, perfect upbringing – so much perfection that they feel bored and dissatisfied. And so, they jump from therapist to therapist, trying to find a solution for a problem that is not even there. Do you think I didn't see your cabinet? With all the half-empty boxes of Celexa, Zoloft, Prozac, Paxil – you've tried every antidepressant currently on the market, haven't you? And then you dare calling me pathetic!”

How did he...?  
How could he...?

No.  
No, no, no.

He wouldn't let such scum trick him into believing that his depression wasn't a real issue – he had worked for months on that notion alone, and he accepted that, and...

But Feliciano Vargas' traitorous throat became tighter.  
His vision became unclear, limbs shaky, skin clammy.

He hadn't had a panic attack in a long, long time, but it was as if his body could perfectly recall any of those awful sensations. 

Would he die of it this time?

No, he couldn't die from panic, he knew that much.

And then, like Hell he would give that piece of shit such a satisfaction.

“I-I won't take any lessons on how to live my life from someone who doesn't have a fuckin' job!” he retaliated, lowly, out of pure self-defense “Did you even complete college at least?”

Gilbert Weilschmidt grinned – and it was a broad, treacherous, satisfied smile.

“I have a Master Degree in Aviation Engineering, from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I am currently employed by the National Defense, to develop innovative prototypes of technologically advanced, aerodynamic vehicles. Is that enough for you, Mr. I-am-on-a-pedestal? I told you you know nothing! So, how did your life go, before becoming a doctor, huh? Did your big sister teased you when you were too little? Your schoolmates bullied you? Is that why you've been on every psych drug in the world?”

As air became harder and harder to reach, Feliciano Vargas suddenly felt like a small child.

Self-preservation became his own, vital priority.

“I have Major Depressive Disorder! So what?! As if you knew what kind of illness it is! There is no reason, depression just happens! But you! You went to a prestigious, costly school, you have a job that probably pays twice as much as mine, and yet you were the one wanted to die in a blizzard! What is it? You got tired of your problem-less life? Enough to wish for your own death?” 

And then, oxygen started flowing to his lungs again, in a sort of mad frenzy.

“Because, if that's the case, let me tell you something! I tried to commit suicide, two years ago, understood? I filled a tub with hot water, drank a bottle of whiskey, and then chugged down enough meds to kill a horse – benzos, painkillers, antidepressants, sleeping pills. My brother saved me by pure chance, you know? I was hospitalized in a psychiatric ward for a month, after that! So this is my perfect life! You know nothing about my sufferance – no wait, you know nothing about suffering in general! But I know! And that's why I told you that death is for cowards! I have been there, I have been a coward! But I had a reason! A damn reason! But what about you, huh? You studied at MIT, you have a cool job! You're just a wimp! A stupid, moronic wimp! And, moreover, now that you have a little boo-boo, you don't even want to see a proper doctor! You disgust me, Gilbert Weilschmidt, you fucking disgust me!”

Silence followed his statement.  
And it was cold, icy, unnatural – almost sticky.

Then, the albino's voice came again, but it was low, rough – deadly.

“A reason, huh? You wanna know my fucking reason, Doctor? Well, my fucking reason is called glioblastoma multiforme. Stage IV, inoperable, six months to live at most, with or without radiation therapy.. I was diagnosed the week before you decided to soothe your own loneliness by playing the nice guy. This is my fucking good reason.”

As the door of his apartment was slammed open, and then closed, Feliciano Vargas crumpled to the ground, like a Jenga tower whose vital pieces had just been all removed, all of a sudden.

First the first time in years, he was fully conscious he was crying his eyes out.

 

******

 

Glioblastoma multiforme (GBM), WHO classification name "glioblastoma", is the most common and most aggressive malignant primary brain tumor in humans, involving glial cells and accounting for 52% of all functional tissue brain tumor cases and 20% of all intracranial tumors.  

Of course, Feliciano Vargas knew it all too well.

But, somehow, reading those words fair and square on Wikipedia helped his mind to regain some ground again, to turn off his emotional switch, and just act like a physician.

And so, as a physician, when he managed to pull himself together, a million questions started swirling in his head.

Why hadn't he noticed anything?  
Or, to better put it, why hadn't he linked all the symptoms in a unique picture?

It was obvious, Hell.  
Just a brain tumor could cause that stuff to appear all together.  
 Weight loss, headaches, seizures, nausea, cognitive impairment, weakness – it all made sense, now.

Prognosis:

The median survival time from the time of diagnosis without any treatment is 3 months, but with treatment survival of 1–2 years is common. Increasing age (> 60 years of age) carries a worse prognostic risk. Death is usually due to cerebral edema or increased intracranial pressure.

Of course.  
Glioblastoma was a death sentence – sometimes after a few months, sometimes after a year or two, but it was ineluctable. 

What would he do if he was the one diagnosed with glioblastoma?  
Would he try to kill himself as well? Would he want to end it?

With hindsight, that rainy night of January, its meaning, its happenings were getting lit with a darker, sadder aura. And, heedlessly, his current actions too started to seem weird, senseless.

Stupid.

He couldn't lie to himself anymore.  
It had been maybe curiosity, at the beginning, or his kind heart, or whatever you wanted to call it – even sheer fear of being alone a minute longer.

But then...

Then, something had changed.  
No, wait, everything had changed.

He had changed, his life had changed, his opinion had changed.

And so, Feliciano Vargas let go.

After years, centuries of pain, fog, and taboo thoughts, he just let it all slip, further and further, uncapping the lid of all the emotions he had suppressed.

The feeling of love he experienced whenever there was a bowl of steaming pasta waiting for him after a long, difficult shift. The way his heart beat whenever Gilbert was near, the way his body melted, and reacted to the albino's every touch every time they had se- no, every time they made love.

He was in love with Gilbert Weilschmidt.  
He was in love with a man who was suffering, a man he had mistreated and misunderstood, a man who was now alone, maybe scared, maybe crying for his inescapable illness.  
 And what was he doing? He was sitting in the warmth of his kitchen, looking up “Glioblastoma multiforme” on Wikipedia.

As he realized that, his stomach got tied in knot.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” he asked to himself, tarrified.

Springing up to his feet, Feliciano Vargas left his apartment, losing himself in the nightly air of Chicago. 

He started looking for someone he had probably lost forever.

 

EPILOGUE

 

Love is a fleeting feeling.  
It comes and goes at it pleases, and you can't grasp it, nor control it. 

Rather, the more you try to make sense of it, the more you find yourself under its spell, victim of a game whose rules you don't know.

As if the hand of destiny had touched and tied their paths again, Feliciano Vargas found Gilbert Weilschmidt sitting in the same spot as that night of January, huddled between a garbage bin, and a pile of trash.

Crying the most heartfelt tears of his entire existence, he threw himself at the other's man neck, hugging him, and kissing him.

“I love you.” he muttered for the first time ever “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

******

On May 14th, Gilbert Weilschmidt and Feliciano Vargas got married with a discreet civil ceremony.

The three months that followed, both blessed and cursed by the ticking cruelness of Gilbert's illness, were the happiest a certain, previously disillusioned ER doctor had experienced in a long while.

Fortunately, whatever kind of God was up there had shown some mercy for the man Feliciano had loved the most.

On a windy night of mid-August Gilbert Weilschmidt peacefully passed away in his sleep.

******

“Do you think Gilbert would be happy?”

Five years later, a brunette figure was standing again, holding an umbrella.  
He wasn't in a dark alley, this time, but in a graveyard, and next to him was another man, taller and blond. He was holding with warmth and affection his spare hand.

“I think he would. We met right before his funeral, haven't we? I am sure there is his hand in this. You did a lot for him, you know? He texted me at times, when he lived with you, saying just how special you were to him, and how much he loved you. He wouldn't want you to be sad, Feliciano. And I don't want to see you sad either.”

Feliciano Vargas nodded, instinctively snuggling closer to his new boyfriend.  
He left a white rose, as candid as his first love's hair, fall on the gray, polished stone in front of him.

“Thank you, Gilbert. Thank you for everything.”

 

So what would you think of me now, So lucky, so strong, so proud? I never said thank you for that.

(Jimmy Eat World – Hear you Me)

\- The End-


End file.
